


Mates

by Curt_Kenobi



Category: Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: Currently unfinished/WiP, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, No Quotation Marks, Phonetic Scots, hints of D/s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 14:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8146864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curt_Kenobi/pseuds/Curt_Kenobi
Summary: (Pointless slash, I think.) Rents and Sick Boy have been mates forever. Sick Boy's a slick bastard. Rents is...Rents. In true Welsh style (aka phonetic Scots and no quotation marks, just triple dashes).





	1. Part One: {Trainspotting} Rents -- Apprehension

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started in...2006. There's an end chapter called Final Cuts that has yet to be fully constructed.  
> Also, on ff.net there's a vanilla version of Chapter 3. This is not that.

**Title:** Mates  
**Author:** Curt Kenobi  
**Rating:** M or R  
**Summary:** (Pointless slash, I think.) Rents and Sick Boy have been mates forever. Sick Boy's a slick bastard. Rents is...Rents. In true Welsh style (aka phonetic Scots and no quotation marks, just triple dashes).

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Trainspotting, but consider Irvine Welsh a god.

**A/N:** I've read Trainspotting and seen the movie (I incorporate both) and am reading Porno. Rents has been the bi-curious one. Sick Boy's the suave MF. Perfect set-up to a pairing. First part will take place in Trainspotting era; second part in Porno era. Hopefully this will evolve into a better story than I see it at present.

_\--------Rents: Apprehension---------_

Ah'm sittin oan the sofa next tae Sick Boy. Eh's sprawled across it, leavin me barely any room. The fucker snores. No loud, likesay, but...it gits tae us. It's soft an ah find ah'm jist starin at ihm, watchin ihm breathe, tha rise an fall ay his chest. It's broad, ehs chest, n ah see the chesthairs that tell eh's no a natural blond peeking above the collar ay his tanktop. Ah shouldnae be talkin aboot natural hair colour, considerin not long ago ah dyed ma ain hair black -- jist tae realise that ma pubes wis still ginger. Ah've since decided it's a stupid thing tae do that only a radge cunt like me woulda done. (Couldnae wait fir it tae grow out, sae ah shaved it all off, jist about.)

Sick Boy's fuckin stylish, though. Fuckin ravishment waiting. Nae fuckin wonder birds are all ower ihm like eh wis chocolate or somethin. Eh may no be a natural blond, but the bleached-oot colour looks hot oan ihm. Confidence fair radiates offay the fucker. Makes me rather ashamed ay masel, tae be honest.

We've kent each other for ages. Eh's been ma mate since school. Even stayed in touch when ah went tae Aberdeen Uni fir a spell. Thinkin bout ma past jist makes us think ay the therapist sessions ah had tae go tae. N all ah want tae think aboot fir the now is Simon.  
His lashes are brown, long. Ah ken eh's dreamin 'cos his eyes are flickerin beneath the lids. Ah wonder what about. Shaggin some fine bird? Shoot mair dugs in the arse n playin hero? -- That's an experience. Ah secretly covet ehs compliment tae me when ah had a go wi ehs air rifle. _Fir a vegetarian, Rents, ye're a fuckin evil shot._

Aye, ehs a unique cunt. Kens tons ay shite aboot Sean Connery -- thinks Sean's ehs conscience or somesuch shite. He'll go oan n oan aboot ehs "life theory." Ah dinnae have one masel, but Sick Boy's sense -- it jist doesnae gie ye much tae hope fir. We all git auld, we cannae hack it anymair, and that's it. That's ehs life theory.

Ah lean forward. Dinnae ken why, but the impulse jist struck me. Ah'm clean, n when ah am, ah'm bored as fuck. Sae ah dae shite tae gie me the feelin that ah still am alive -- usually it's gittin back oan skag. But ah've wanted tae do this fir a long time.

Ah lay across Sick Boy. Eh's layin oan his side sae ah'm like draped atop ay ihm. Now ah'm face tae face wi him. Eh's got a strong nose -- straight, pointed. Thin lips, a wide mooth. Funny how sae simple and almost hard -- almost cruel -- ay mooth can git sae many birds. It's eywis fascinated me, though.

Sae ah leaned forward a bit mair n kissed him.

It surprised the fuck outta me when eh kissed back.

It scared the shit outta me when, after we pulled apart, he opened ehs eyes.

\---Fir fuck's sake, Mark.

That wis all eh said. Ah dinnae ken if it wis an admonishment or a compliment.


	2. Sick Boy: Acquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark's eywis been odd. But Ah nivir thought eh'd take it tae moi.

_**\--------Sick Boy: Acquisition---------** _

Mark's eywis been odd. But ah nivir thought eh'd take it tae moi.

We've been mates fir a long time -- fuckin ages, like. Eh's the sort ye kin kick roond n they'll jist sit n take it. Nae backbone, likesay, though they've baws. That orange cunt's done some surprising shit. Such as what he did yesterday.

The Rent Boy up n kissed me yesterday. Radge cunt.

If the cunt's gaunnae try n snare Simone, ehs in desperate need ay pointers.

Here is it -- Simone's list ay 'What tae dae' fir Mark Renton:

1 - If ye're goin fir a sneak approach, dinnae lay oan us fir ages before ye dae it.

2 - Learn tae kiss better, fir fuck's sake. (Though nae too bad, like -- jist some polishin is no outta the question.)

3 - Most important of all: dinnae try tae get moi unless yer a born, braw bird. (That should have been the first yin.)

Wouldn't ye agree, Sean?

_Too right, Shimon._

Thank you. Nivir seen Sean as nae buftie. But...well, the thing is...point three is null and void. Ehs no a bird n ehs gone n done it. Now the question comes tae me. Why the bleeding fuck did ah let ihm? Ah kissed back tae fuck ihm up. Bad choice, Simone. Rents is oan after ye now.

Fuck.

Ah lay back down oan ma sofa -- the same yin me n Rents have sat oan countless times, watchin Jean-Claude Van Damme movies n the far fae astounding sex tape ay Tommy and Lizzy's that Mark lifted. The sofa me n countless birds huv shagged upon. Ah fold ma airms behind ma heid, starin at the ceiling.

Rents is ma mate. Ehs nae too bad oan the eyes tae be sure, save fir his facial imperfections n being a ginger minger. Ehs lackin in sexual prowess, but ye cannae expect great things fae a ginger/half-soapdodger/oan-n-off junky.

Ah'll take it as an adventure. _Ye've got tae try shomething new tae move up in the world._ Too right, Sean. Too right. N there's naething mair tae ma liking than a steady social climb, n a challenge.

N that is what this is: It's a challenge, a bit ay fun. Pit the Rent Boy in ehs place.

Ah smile.

Rents'll be over soon. Ah'll shock the shite outta ihm.


	3. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark Renton stood apprehensively outside the infamous Simon Williamson's door....

**_\----------Beginnings-----------_ **

Mark Renton stood apprehensively outside of the infamous Simon David Williamson's door. Fuck, even his name was imposing. Renton ducked his head. Sick Boy. Sick Boy, that suave, half-Italian bastard. His closest mate.

_Closest._

Renton turned away and started to pace, slamming a palm against his forehead. Everyone knew that Sick Boy was a pretentious, conceited cunt. Somehow those vile qualities did nothing to stop how birds came to him like bees to a pretty flower. Or, how Mark did. _Bloody hell, ah've jist become a statistic. 'Puir cunts thit fell fir the Sick Boy'._

\---Fir fuck's sake, he admonished himself. He turned back to the door. And froze. There shouldn't have been anything to be worried about, but Renton was deathly afraid that, after that door was opened, instead of the typical "C'moan in, Rents", he was bound to get a fist to the face and a " _Dinnae come back here, ye flamin' buftie!_ " shouted out at him as he staggered down the corridor with a profusely bleeding nose.

He saw it all too well.

Nevertheless, taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Renton lifted a hand, and knocked on the door.

\---Simon! It's Mark.

\------------------------------

Sick Boy sat up at the call from his door. Ah, the ginger minger comes again. He had almost thought that, given Mark's character, the wee cunt wouldn't have shown back. A day of surprises, then. Sick Boy smiled like a fox and got up to answer the door.

\---Hallo, Rents. He noted how the Rent Boy had flinched when he had swung open the door. Cowardly bastard. Not surprising. Inwardly, he sighed. ---C'moan, then. He nodded for his mate to follow him in with a jerk of his head. As he turned away to walk to the sofa, he heard Mark's sigh of relief. Radge bastard. What'd he think he'd do? He smiled. Definitely not what he was going to do -- not even in Rent Boy's wildest dreams would he expect what was coming to him.

Renton sat upon the sofa, looking uncomfortable. Couldn't have that, now. Sick Boy lounged out beside him, sprawling yet still sitting. ---Pit in the Van Damme, then, eh?

\---Aye. Aye, sure. Mark leaned forward and pushed the video into the VCR. They sat in silence for a bit, Mark all but wringing his hands. Sick Boy slouched further down on the sofa. They'd seen this film a million and one times. He was bored. His head rested on Renton's shoulder. Renton didn't see the sly smile and calculation in his eyes as he did so.

 _Ah, tae fuck, tae fuck, tae fuck,_ Mark thought as he felt the warm weight of Simon's head on his shoulder, almost on his chest. God, he was warm. As Renton exhaled, strands of blond flitted.

After a few moments, Renton figured that Sick Boy had fallen asleep yet again. They really had to find a new movie. Or maybe not, because it allowed him his little stolen moments. Mark's hand, carefully slipped from where Sick Boy's solid body had had it pinned to the back of the sofa, came up and lightly brushed over the ponytail of Sick Boy's sunbeam hair. Soft. Really soft. How many times had he entertained screwing with Simon over his hair? Setting it on fire -- he'd actually done that once or twice. Simon was so fucking vain.

It was distracting, that silky texture, and Mark unconsciously wrapped it round his hand. His eyes closed. This moment was one to engrave in his head. Simon's head on his chest -- it had slipped down -- and his hand lost in that long tail of hair.

At first he thought he was dreaming -- but it came quickly that he wasn't.

The hand gently tugging on his ponytail had done it, damn him. If there was one thing that was innocent-seeming yet could make him go into instant sex-mode, it was pulling his hair. The possibilities that flashed through his mind always made him flip. Deftly, Sick Boy had undone Renton's fly and now was lavishing his cock with wet, suckling kisses. The skin tasted heady -- of salt and Rents and whatever soap he used -- maybe the cunt wasn't as suseptible to his soap-dodger roots as Simon had always predicted.

Rents' cock wasn't something new to him -- he remembered when they used to go to the photobooths and take pictures of their wangs and post them at the train station. Rents would always press his closer to try and make his look bigger, because, at the time, he was the smaller of them both. It seemed that he had grown into himself though, or else Simon's memory was just shot. But then he really didn't care, because he was enjoying this as much as Renton.

Renton was getting close, his hips starting to buck, soft moans falling from his lips. His hands were fisted in Simon's hair, one pulling the ponytail tighter around it, the other digging into the front of his hair.

Sick Boy pulled off of him, and Rents whimpered. Simon smiled. He was tripping on this already. He had complete control over the sorry fucker -- had had complete control before he'd ever answered the door.

\---Nae. My rules.

Rents nodded emphatically, those pretty eyes wide, a rim of that unfathomable colour just visible round widely dilated pupils. His mouth was slack, and Sick Boy took the initiative to claim it and plunder. Those eyes disappeared as they rolled back and the lids fluttered down. But again, Simon pulled back far too soon it seemed, and Rents was left bereft.

\---Stand, Simon commanded, and Mark did, legs threatening to give way beneath him, hands loosely holding his jeans up so they didn't fall from slim hips. He was clean, and the one thing he always found was, after he got over the depression, he got horny as fuck. And this...this was a bloody Godsend.

\---Tae the wall. 'Moan now, move it, Mark. Simon crossed his arms as he watched his best mate stumble across to the wall, falling full against it. Good boy. He walked slowly -- menacingly, to Rents -- across, standing behind the smaller man, just close enough his body heat was tantilising against Rents' back, but not close enough to really feel. It was enough to drive a gadge crazy. Mark closed his eyes and lay his cheek against the wall. Soon. Please, soon. But "soon" wouldn't even be soon enough. The anticipation was killer.

Simon finally slowly reached forward and grabbed the hem of Renton's jumper, and his relieved moan resounded through the room. A smile crossed Simon's face. Too simple. Too bloody perfect. The jumper was slowly pulled up, Simon's hands caressing sensually as he pushed it up Renton's arms and then pulled it off over his friend's head. Rents was back to whimpering again. ---That's right, Simon whispered in his ear. ---Isn't it? Only a nod in reply. ---Say "yes", Mark.

\---Yes, he finally said, voice breathy and oddly-pitched. He was shivering. Simon gentled him, smoothing his hands up and down Renton's too-small tee shirt. Then it followed the same path as the jumper had. Rents' hands were braced against the wall, his forgotten jeans slipping down his arse, the only thing stopping their journey Simon's body pressed full-length against his back, leg to legs, groin to arse, chest to back. Simon's breath was hot in his ear. Renton wiggled, and Sick Boy grasped his hips, fingers bruising tight, fingernails just digging into soft flesh.

\---Ah'm nae finished, Mark. And you don't get choices. I say what goes. Understand?

\---Yes. He'd caught on fast. Hell, at this point, he'd cut his prick off if Simon asked, no matter how little sense it would make. A hot hand petted his hip.

\---Good. On yer knees, then.

He dropped like a lead balloon, turning around, knowing what was expected, and eager. He watched transfixed as Simon slowly -- so. very. fucking. slowly. -- undid his belt, having to slide it all the way off through the loops to slowly fold and set it atop the VCR and telly. Then, same fashion with the button and zipper of his pants. And then Renton set to work, but only after the word was given. He kissed and licked, and then took him to the root.

Sick Boy's hands sought purchase in his mate's short-shorn hair, finding none, though the prickle/tickle of the soft hair was interesting against his hands. Annoying and inticing at the same time, like Renton himself. Who was surprisingly good at this. He knew Rents had fucked around before, reportedly not too enthused with the experience, but fucking hell, evidently he didn't mind it too bad -- he wasn't minding this, for sure. And neither was Simon, who, to his own shock, found the actual visual of his friend's hot mouth upon him far more arousing than even that of a beautiful bird.

Finally, Sick Boy forced Renton from him before he came. He didn't want to yet. That would defeat the purpose of the power-trip. As Renton got back to his feet, Simon's eyes flicked to the belt. He could all to easily picture it round Mark's throat, him pulling the tail to tighten right as Renton came. But, no. That was for a later time. Work up to it.

Hm. That was interesting. Not entertaining the _possiblilty_ of a next time, but the _certainty_ of it. Of course there would be a second time, though. Renton was that desperate and that acquiesent. Even if Simon didn't give a flying fuck about it, it was still sex. Fairly good sex. And a hell of a power trip. And Rents. He'd always bullied Rents. But this was so much better. So much.

He shoved Renton hard against the wall, wishing again that his friend had longer hair. He settled for placing his hand hard right where Renton's neck met his head, holding it hard against the wall, forcing Renton to tilt his head back, hands bracing against the wall. He saw the wince of pain cross Mark's face, ignored it. He rummaged with his free hand through his pants pocket for the tube he had stashed in preparation for this event. He found it and skillfully managed to coat his cock and his hand with the lube without ever taking his other hand from the back of Renton's head. Then his slickened fingers were seeking entrance.

Renton was lost. It had gone from slow and maddeningly teasing to fast and furious and incoherent in a flash, just like before, only a hell of a lot more...in-depth than when they when they were on the sofa. If he could have thought coherently, he would have made a note to keep on his toes around the Sick Boy, but as it was he was completely beyond any shred of thought, completely lost in sensation. He winced as Sick Boy's long finger breached him, soon followed by a second, scissoring, stretching him, prepping him for what, if the prelude was any indication, wasn't going to be a gentle, slow affair.

He didn't think he'd want it that way, anyway. Not right now. Right now he just wanted --

Their matching groans broke through panting breaths to fill the air as Simon slid into him. Mark's fingers scrabbled across the smooth wall, his body nothing but confliction, wanting to get away, wanting to get near. And then Simon was thrusting, controlled and hard, and the pain didn't matter anymore, didn't exist anymore. And then there were stars, stars and perfection and bliss and blackness and white noise, and he was falling...

Simon gave a hoarse shout as he came hard, forcing Mark hard against the wall. He caught Renton as they both fell sated and boneless to the floor, Mark already asleep. Maybe this was a beginning to an arrangement that wasn't as undesirable as he'd once thought, Sick Boy considered, running a hand numbly over the reddish fuzz of Rents' hair, before he closed his eyes and descended into sleep himself.


	4. Part Two: {Porno} Renton -- Final Hits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I was in Edinburgh....

_\-------- **Renton: Final Hits** \---------_

It’s been sae long since I’ve been in Edinburgh. And the way things have just come piling up – it’s like a bad drama on the telly. The Dam’s no longer my refuge – funny how that’s only happened after Sick Boy (or Simon, as the cunt’s quick to correct nowadays) came over there.

_Sick Boy. Simon._

Edinburgh people – Leith people – are evidently the model for the saying “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Simon illustrates it fuckin beautifully – to borrow fae his idea of my simplification of his under-whelming “unifying life-theory”: Simon’s still a druggie; he just takes it up a slowly-decaying nostril instead of in a putrid vein these days. Still a sick schemer –- this is porno production just the biggest of them.

And he’s still bloody got _it._ That…appeal about him that can put ma heart in my throat and twist my baws.

Thank fuck his current toy Nikki led me back tae Dianne.

Now Dianne, she’s different. I told her long ago half-heartedly as I was desperate for a shag that I thought she was special; little did I know that she truly would turn out to be. She’s blown me away with the woman that she is today. Her thoughtfulness, her intelligence. We’re new people, she and I. My “owl-eyes.”

Sometimes I really can’t understand myself: That secret, masochistic want for Sick Boy’s raw sexuality warring with my need of Dianne’s mature, deep intimacy.

I always knew I secretly wanted to see Simon again – our parting hadn’t been at all on the best of terms. Certainly contradictory (I had let him have his way with me in the pub bathroom that day, after Franco had chibbed Spud and been his typical psychotic fucking self, and then that night I had run with his money.) Part of me always wanted to go back to that, to our uneven relationship. To see just what he would do to me if I did come back.

That was one of the reasons I had started to go with Katrin after I felt secure enough and rebuilt myself: She looked almost like a gadge, and she exuded Simon’s callous aloofness/almost cruelty. Same hard eyes, pale hair. Simon without a knob.

Now, ten years later, ten years of rebuilding maself – the club, Luxury; the martial arts; the sobriety – ten years of becoming a new person…and suddenly all the auld has flooded back in. And here I thought maybe the Dam would hold.

Simon had been but violently pissed when he’d come round my flat in the Dam. He’d forced semi-politeness for Katrin (though it was evident that neither of the got on with the other) but the façade was dropped as soon as she was gone. And then he had tackled me, raging aboot the fuckin money. I could have easily fended him off, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t even that he had caught me off-guard; I’m well-trained and kent easily how to turn the tables on an opponent who thought they had the upperhand. No, I wasn’t fighting back ‘cos here I was, in my bathrobe, pinned to the ground, familiar hands round my neck – and while Simon’s become a bit of a fat bastard, I still can’t help that I loved the position I found myself in.

I thought I had kicked my old addictions.

Old habits die hard. So it seems, so it seems.

So here I am, in fuckin Leith, helping Simon in yet more schemes. He’s scamming and making this porno, all the while whilst wining and dining and full-on shagging this Nikki lass…. And I’m _in love_ with Dianne….

And I jist want a farewell taste of the auld. There are final hits and final hits. I want a _final_ hit.

And then I’ll come off of this for good. I’ll get good and far away from this fucker and his sway over me. I’ll get away with Dianne. Start again, for the final time. I’ll do just like I did last time, but I’ll get it right.

But I just need one last hit. One last time with him. Just us, as we were.


	5. Sick Boy: Final Cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah still cannae believe it's really Rent-boy sittin across the way...

_**\--------Sick Boy: Final Cuts--------** _

 

Ah still cannae quite believe that's really Rent-boy sittin across the way as I set up shop to view the finished product of _Seven Rides for Seven Brothers._ Mark Renton, Rents, the fuckin ginger-minger, right in my vicinity.

And I haven't killed him yet. I haven't fucking murdered the wee bastard for how he screwed me over. Why's that? McLeish?

_I'd say it's something Freudian, Williamson. Or subliminal, in the least._

I'd say so.

I almost beat the shite out of his tofu-eating, biscuit-ersed self. When I first came roond his gaff in Amsterdam, after having to play nice with his frigid wee Teutonic she-boy cow. I had him under me, after knocking him a fucking good one. I was caught then between wanting to purely strangle the fucker or wanting to re-enact that flashback from times gone by that was playing in my head.

He'd've let me. Let me fuck him, hard and careless. If there's something about Rents: he goes back to what he knows. Always. Bet if I cooked up a hit fir the fucker, he'd take it, shove that Zen-buddha-tofu-'nae drugs' image.

I don't care about the drugs anymair. ...But I do want to exercise that control I have over him. Just one more time. Just for the power trip.

I'm exactly where I'm I've striven to be all my life. I am the director, the puppeteer. And they all are the worthless shites that dangle from my strings, dancing when I will it, jumping when I say to – and bloody-well asking, -How high, Simon?

The movie is over and Rents is talking to Nikki. Fucking _cunt._ He hasn't the credentials to even _look_ at her. Even if she is a wee bitch, she's _my_ shag.

...Yes, I'll exercise that control I've over him.

I've got the sinking feeling we're reaching a climax here, and things are about to blow.


End file.
